RILEY'S NATIONAL POETRY: Das Krist Kindel, The Old Man and Jim, A Peace Hymn of the Republic, An Old Sweetheart of Mine, The Silent Victors, A Monument for the Soldiers, Dead in Sight of Fame, Decoration Day on the Place, Ginoine Ar-ticle, In the Name of Old Glory, No Boy Knows.
Shown above is Riley (front row, 3rd from left) with President Theodore Roosevelt (front row, 7th from left) at the famous "Fairbanks" Tea Party. Riley was a friend and confidant of both the mighty and common.
(An Expression of God to the Hoosier Deutsch, part of Riley's heritage)
I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in
delight
Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December
night;
And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my
throne" -
The old split-bottomed rocker - and was musing all alone.
I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door,
And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor;
But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream
That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.
Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar,
With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded
star; -
And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away,
With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a
sleigh.
And in vision, painted like a picture in the air,
I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair-
A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared,
And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.
He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth,
On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth;
And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb,
I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.
And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage
Alive with little actors of a very tender age;
And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked,
And lisped and purled and curled like the brooklets, when
they talked.
And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest
dew,
And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven
through;
And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell
Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.
And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy,
Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy;
And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee,
And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.
`Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin,
And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in;
And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and
reeds,
As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.
And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her
That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh;
And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air
Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer: -
By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea,
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, -
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.
Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone
As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the
dawn;
And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us draw,
We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.
You have give us a shepherd - You have given us a guide,
And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from
Your side -
But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open
wide
To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.
By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea,
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, -
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.
Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the
refrain,
Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-
pane;
And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel
Who brings the world good tidings, - "It is Christmas - all
is well!"
Old
man never had much to say -
'Ceptin to Jim, -
And Jim was the wildest boy he had -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life, - and first time was
When the army broke out, and Jim he went,
The old man backin' him, fer three months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jus' as we turned to start away, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
'Peared-like, he was more satisfied
Jes' lookin' at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? -
'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim -
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say'
"Well, good-by Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Never was nothin' about the farm
Disting'ished Jim; Neighbors all ust to wonder why
The old man 'peared wrapped up in him:
But when Cap. Biggler he writ back
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black,
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad -
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag
Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen. -
The old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said:
"Tell Jim Good-by,
And take keer of hisse'f!"
Jim come home jes' long enough
To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Jim' lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised,
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade -
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man say, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Tuk the papers, the old man did
A-watchin' fer Jim -
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
Some way - 'jes wrapped up in him! -
And many a time the word 'u'd come
'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum -
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,
And socked it home to the boys in gray,
As they scooted fer timber, and on and on -
Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone,
And the old man's words in his mind all day, -
"Well, good-by Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps -
And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!
Think of him - with the war plum' through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him -
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his ears, -
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
*One of Riley's greatest Civil War poems.
There's a Voice across the Nation like a might ocean-hail,
Borne up from out the Southward as the seas before the gale;
Its breath is in the streaming Flag and in the flying sail -
As we go sailing on.
'Tis a Voice that we remember - ere its summons soothed as
now -
When it rang in battle-challenge, and we answered vow with
vow, -
With roar of gun and hiss of sword and crash of prow and
prow,
As we went sailing on.
Our hope sank, even as we saw the sun sink faint and far, -
The Ship of State went groping through the blinding smoke of
War -
Through blackest midnight lurching, all uncheered of moon or
star,
Yet sailing - sailing on.
As One who spake the dead awake, with life-blood leaping warm
-
Who walked the troubled waters, all unscathed, in mortal
form, -
We felt our Pilot's presence with His hand upon the storm,
As we went sailing on.
O Voice of passion lulled to peace, this dawning of To-day -
O Voices twain now blent as one, ye sing all fears away,
Since foe and foe are friends, and lo! the Lord, as glad as
they. -
He sends us sailing on.
(The 1875 folk narrative that follows became the most popular poem of the America of the late 19th century and was said to have resulted in Riley become wealthy. I have heard it said that it earned Riley $500 a word in the currency of that time.)
An old sweetheart of mine! - Is this her
presence here with
me,
Or but a vain creation of a lover's memory?
A fair, illusive vision that would vanish into air
Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a prayer?
Nay, let me then believe in all the blended false and true -
The semblance of the old love and the substance of the new, -
The then of changeless sunny days - the now of shower and
shine -
But Love forever smiling - as that old sweetheart of mine.
This ever-restful sense of home, though shouts ring in the
hall. -
The easy chair - the old book-shelves and prints along the
wall,
The rare Habanas in their box, or gaunt church-warden-stem
That often wags, above the jar, derisively at them.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album, all alone,
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known,
So I turn the leaves of Fancy, til, in shadowy design,
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.
The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise,
As I turn it low - to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes,
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.
'Tis a fragrant retrospection, - for the loving thoughts that
start
Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart;
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine -
When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart of
mine.
Though I hear beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings,
The voices of my children and the mother as she sings -
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme
When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream -
In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm, -
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of
mine.
O Childhood-days enchanted! O the magic of the Spring! -
With all green boughs to blossom white, and all bluebirds to
sing!
When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a jubilee
And changed the children's song and laugh to shrieks of
ecstasy.
With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips that
taste, as well,
The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old School bell,
And from "Recess" romp in again from "Blackman's" broken
line,
To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweetheart of mine.
A face of lily beauty, with a form of airy grace,
Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase;
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.
I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress
She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress
With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine
Grew 'round the stump," she loved me - that old sweetheart of
mine.
Again I made her presents, in a really helpless way, -
The big "Rhode Island Greening2" - I was hungry, too, that
day! -
But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand behind her - so
-
And I slip the apple in it - and the Teacher doesn't know!
I give my treasures to her - all, - my pencil - blue-and-red;
-
And, if little girls played marbles, mine should all be hers,
instead!
But she gave me her photograph, and printed, "Ever thine"
Across the back - in blue-and-red - that old sweetheart of
mine!
And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand,
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned, -
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do
But write the tender verses that she set the music to...
When we should live together in a cozy little cot
Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot,
Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine,
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of
mine.
When I should be her lover forever and a day,
And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray;
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb
They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had
come.
But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair,
And the door is softly opened, and - my wife is standing
there.
*This poem was one of Riley's most popular. It was said to have earned him $500 a word - a princely sum in Riley's day. A story set in New York City demonstrates its popularity. A vagabond named McGlaughlin was brought to Court on an October day charged with loitering and vagrancy. In defending himself he said that he was an actor and simply out of work. "To prove I'm an actor just give me a poem to recite. I'll orate any piece you choose." The judge said if he could recite, "And Old Sweetheart of Mine" he would acknowledge that he was no "bum." McGlauglin did so and his reading was so good that the judge not only dismissed the charges but also had a collection taken up for the man in his courtroom.
Deep,
tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart
Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away,
Who in grim Battle's drama played their part,
And slumber here to-day -
Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath
As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line
And marched upon their death:
When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds Scarce healed,
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again
To shudder in the storm of battlefield -
The elements of men, -
When every star that glittered was a mark
For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar
Of red and white was sullied with the dark
And purple stain of war;
When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey,
Were bowling o'er their gory feast of lives,
And sending dismal echoes far away
To mothers, maids and wives: -
The mother, kneeling in the empty night,
With pleading hands uplifted for the son
Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight -
The victory had won:
The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say
The babe was waiting for the sire's caress -
The letter meeting that upon the way, -
The babe was fatherless:
The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed
Against the brow once dewy with her breath,
Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed
Save by the dews of death.
II
What meed of tribute can the poet pay
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine
Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day
In epitaph design? -
Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows
That ache no longer with a dream of fame,
But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house,
Renowned beyond the name.
The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall,
And tender morning with her shining hand
May brush them from the grasses green and tall
That undulate the land. -
Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thirst,
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap,
Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift
Out of its dreamless sleep:
The dear old Flag, whose faintest flutter flies
A stirring echo through each patriot breast,
Can never coax to life the folded eyes
That saw its wrongs redressed -
That watched it waver when the fight was hot,
And blazed with newer courage to its aid,
Regardless of the shower of shell and shot
Through which the charge was made; -
And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings,
Like some proud bird in stormy element,
And soar untrammeled on its wanderings,
They closed in death, content.
III
O Mother, you who miss the smiling face
Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight,
And left you weeping o'er the vacant place
He used to fill at night, -
Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns
That drowned the farewell words you tried to say
To incoherent ones; -
Be glad and proud you had the life to give -
Be comforted through all the years to come, -
Your country has a longer life to live,
Your son a better home.
O Widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child,
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send
A keener pang to grief unreconciled, -
Teach him to comprehend
He had a father brave enough to stand
Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun,
That, dying, he might will the rich old land
Of Freedom to his son.
And, Maiden, living on through lonely years
In fealty to love's enduring ties, -
With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears
That gather in your eyes,
Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer,
Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host: -
I see your Angel-soldier pacing there,
Expectant at his post. -
I see the rank and file of armies vast,
That muster under one supreme control;
I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast -
The calling of the roll -
The grand divisions falling into line
And forming, under voice of One alone
Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine
The hymn that shades the Throne.
IV
And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest
In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom
And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best,
In silence o'er the tomb.
With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone
That stands the sentinel for each beneath
Whose glory is our own.
While in the violet that greets the sun,
We see the azure eye of some lost boy;
And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one
We kissed in childish joy, -
Recalling, haply, when he marched away,
He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet, -
The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day
Is there and burning yet:
And through the storm of grief around her tossed,
One ray of saddest comfort she may see, -
Four hundred thousand dons like hers were lost
To weeping Liberty.
But draw aside the drapery of gloom,
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away
And gild with brighter glory every tomb
We decorate to-day;
And in the holy silence reigning round,
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere,
Where loyal souls of love and faith are found,
Thank God that Peace is here!
And let each angry impulse that may start,
Be smothered out of every loyal breast;
And, rocked within the cradle of the heart,
Let every sorrow rest.
A MONUMENT for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
And the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it of!
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
*This poem became the rallying cry to build the Soldiers and Sailors Monument now located on the Circle in downtown Indianapolis, IN. Riley read a poem to dedicate this great public monument when it was done.
Dead! Dead ! Dead!
We thought him ours alone;
And were so proud to see him tread
The rounds of fame, and lift his head
Where sunlight ever shone;
But now our aching eyes are dim,
And look through tears in vain for him.
Name! Name! Name!
It was his diadem;
Nor ever tarnish-taint of shame
Could dim its luster - like a flame
Reflected in a gem,
He wears it blazing on his brow
Within the courts of Heaven now.
Tears! Tears! Tears!
Like dews upon the leaf
That bursts at last - from out the years
The blossom of a trust appears
That blooms above the grief;
And mother, brother, wife and child
Will see it and be reconciled.
*An early public poem delivered at a Hancock Co. (IN) Bar Assn. gathering to honor the suicide death of a young lawyer.
It's lonesome - sorto' lonesome, - it's a
Sund'y-day, to me,
It 'pears-like-more'n any day I nearly ever see! -
Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a flutterin' in the
air,
On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lily thare.
They say, though, Decoration Days is giner'ly observed
'Most ev'rywheres - espeshally by soldier-boys that's served.
-
But me and Mother's never went - we seldom git away, -
In p'int o' fact, we're allus home on Decoration Day.
They say the old boys marches through the streeets in colum's
grand,
A'follerin' the old war-tunes they're playin' on the band -
And citizuns all jinin' in - and little childern, too -
All marchin', under shelter of the old Red White and Blue. -
With roses! roses! roses! - ev'rybody in the town! -
And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded down!
-
Oh! don't The Boys know it, from theyr camp acrost the hill?
-
Don't they see theyr com'ards comin' and the old flag wavin'
still?
Oh! can't they hear the bugul and the rattle of the drum? -
Ain't they no way under heavens they can rickollect us some?
Ain't they no way we can coax 'em through the roses, jest to
say
They know that ev'ry day on earth's theyr Decoration Day?
We've tried that - me and Mother, - whare Elias takes his
rest,
In the orchurd - in his uniform, and hands acrost his brest,
And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the
breeze
Above his grave - and over that, - the robin in the trees!
And yit it's lonesome - lonesome! It's a Sund'y-day, to me,
It 'pears-like- more'n any day I nearly ever see! -
Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the
air,
On ev'ry soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lily thare.
*A dialect poem delivered at Grand Army of the Republic (Civil War veterans) gatherings and other public appearances where Riley was invited to entertain.
Talkin' o' poetry, - there're few men yit
`Ats got the stuff biled down so's it'll pour
Out sorgum-like, and keep a year and more
-Jes' sweeter ever' time you tackle it!
W'y all the jinglin' truck `at has ben writ
For twenty year and better is so pore
You caint find no sap in it any more
`N you'd find juice in puff-balls! - AND I'D QUIT!
What people wants is facts, I apperhend;
And naked Natur is the thing to give
Your writin' bottom, eh? And I contend
`At honest work is allus bound to live.
Now thems my views; cause you kind reecommend
Sich poetry as that from end to end.
Old Glory! say, who,
By the ships and the crew
And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue, -
Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear
With such pride everywhere
As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air
And leap out full-length, as we're wanting you to? -
Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same,
And the honor and fame so becoming to you? -
Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red,
With your stars at their glittering best overhead -
By day or by night
Their delighfulest light
Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! -
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? - say, who -
Who gave you the name of Old Glory?
The old banner lifted, and faltering then
In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.
II
Old Glory, - speak out! - we are asking about
How you happened to "favor" a name, so to say,
That sounds so familiar and careless and gay
As we cheer it and shout in our wild breezy way -
We - the crowd, every man of us, calling you that -
We - Tom, Dick and Harry - each swinging his hat
And hurrahing "Old Glory!" like you were our kin,
When - Lord! - we all know we're as common as sin!
And yet it just seems like you humor us all
And waft us your thanks, as we hail you and fall
Into line, with you over us, waving us on
Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone. -
And this is the reason we're wanting to know -
(And we're wanting it so! -
Where our own fathers went we are willing to go.) -
Who gave you the name of Old Glory - Oho!-
Who gave you the name of Old Glory?
The old flag unfurled with a billowy thrill
For an instant, then wistfully sighed and was still.
III
Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear
Is what the plain facts of your christening were, -
For your name - just to hear it,
Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit
As salt as a tear; -
And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by,
There's a shout in the throat and blur in the eye
And an aching to live for you always - or die,
If, dying, we still keep you waving on high.
And so, by our love
For you, floating above,
And the scars of all wars and sorrows thereof,
Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why
Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory?
Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast,
And fluttered an audible answer at last. -
IV
And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said: -
By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red
Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead -
By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast,
As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast,
Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod, -
My name is as old as the glory of God.
...So I came by the name of Old Glory.
There are many things that boys may know -
Why this and that are thus and so, -
Who made the world in the dark and lit
The great sun up to lighten it:
Boys know new things every day -
When they study, or when they play, -
When they idle, or sow and reap -
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
Boys who listen - or should, at least, -
May know that the round old earth rolls East; -
And know that the ice and the snow and the rain -
Ever repeating their parts again -
Are all just water the sunbeams first
Sip from the earth in their endless thirst,
And pour again till the low streams leap. -
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
A boy may know what a long, glad while
It has been to him since the dawn's first smile,
When forth he fared in the realm divine
Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine; -
He may know each call of his truant mates,
And the paths they went, - and the pasture-gates
Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep. -
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
O I have followed me, o'er and o'er,
From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor,
To the pleading voice of the mother when
I even doubted I heard it then -
To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room,
And dewy odors of locust-bloom -
A sweet white cot - and a cricket's cheep. -
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep.
*This was a poem Riley wrote to entertain the boys at Yale upon the occasion when Riley was awarded an Honorary Master's Degree at Yale.
